String of Pearls, part 1, by Nancy Purcell

Nancy Purcell, writer and teacher lives in Brevard, NC. The following short story was published in thesquaretable.com about a year ago. The story has been divided into two parts due to length.


STRING OF PEARLS

Outside Austin, Russell Featherstone drove his Cadillac onto the shoulder of Highway 290, threw the gear into park, and turned to the woman beside him. “What do you say we get married?”
Ellie Pickett’s head jerked toward him so fast she heard her vertebrae crack. At first, when he’d pulled off the highway so abruptly, she thought something was wrong with the engine, but now she believed it was her hearing. “Married? Land sakes, Russell, we just met two weeks ago! Married?” She blinked a few times then fixed her eyes on him. “You’re not one of those crazies, are you?” She shook her head. “You know what I’m sayin’? One of those men that meets a gal, favors the swing of her skirt, and decides to marry her?” Her brow wrinkled and she lowered her chin. “Tell me you’re not some sex maniac. There’ve been plenty of warnin’s on television about men like that.”
Ellie’s husband, Leland Pickett of Seneca, South Carolina, had passed on to Glory some three years ago. Whenever someone inquired about his death, she’d snap her fingers and answer, “Died in his sleep, just like that.” They had one daughter, Lisa, who’d moved to Texas—Austin— with her husband twenty years before.
Ellie and Leland had never visited Lisa during those years; there was always an excuse: too far, too costly, too whatever. In reality, Leland just preferred staying home. So when Lisa invited her mother to Austin for a month, she grabbed the opportunity. Since her husband’s death Ellie had an itch to do something with her life. She’d grown tired of hearing folks gush about their cruises to everywhere. Tired of watching people on TV jump up and down because they’d won a trip to some island she didn’t know existed. And it was because of that itch that she now found herself parked on a Texas roadside with a man named Russell.
“Good Lord, Ellie. All I said was “Why don’t we get married?” Russell let loose of the steering wheel and slumped in the seat. He gently placed his hand on her forearm as if to reassure her she was safe. “I like you, Ellie,” he said in a voice as sweet as a songbird’s. “Hell, I’m crazy over you! Sure we just met, but I’ve closed deals for millions with less time invested.” He blew out a lung full of air, turned up the air-conditioning fan, and waited for her reaction.
“That may be so,” she shot back, waggling a finger at him, “but I’m not some oil field you’re biddin’ on. Not this gal!” She turned down the visor, leaned forward, and studied herself in the lighted mirror. Ellie knew that, despite her age, she was still attractive; the mirror renewed her opinion. She ran her tongue across her teeth and rubbed her lips together, smoothing out pink lipstick. A quick wipe of a finger beneath each eye cleared away smudged eyeliner. As she primped her full white hair and batted the lashes of her blue eyes she could hear her daddy teasing about boys chasing after her. ‘You’ll soon have as many beaus as pearls on a string,’ he’d say, then slap his knee and let loose a belly laugh. Ellie pushed the visor back up, wiggled her fanny into the leather seat and opened her handbag. “Hmm . . . thought I’d put a handkerchief in here before we left Lisa’s.” While she was rummaging, Russell stared at her in amazement. Out of the corner of her eye Ellie caught him watching her and wondered if he still thought of her as a “pint-sized bit of dynamite.”
It was Lisa who’d introduced them to each other. That is, Lisa and her best friend Barbara, who also happened to be Russell’s daughter. The two fifty-year-old empty nesters dedicated way too much time to makeover television shows and romance novels. Having lost control of their children’s lives, and finding themselves unable to exercise little, if any, control over their husbands, they cooked up a plan to enrich the lives of their elderly, single parents: Russell, age eighty-six, and Ellie, eighty-four.
“Well?” Russell queried. Ellie was engaged in zipping and unzipping the eight compartments of her handbag, searching for a hanky. “Ellie! Have you gone deaf?”
“Shush, Russell. Can’t you see I’m thinkin’?” She zipped a small side pocket closed and screwed up her face. “Has it occurred to you that I don’t even know your middle name?” She folded her hands atop the purse and turned her attention to the flowers growing along the roadside. Lovely bluebonnets, she thought. They’d sure look pretty on the kitchen table. I always wanted to do that—keep a white pitcher full of daisies on the table. It’d be like waking up to sunshine. Leland had been allergic to pollen, so fresh flowers in the house were always out of the question. “That’s why the durn things grow outside,” he’d told her. The man even went so far as to chop down the stately pines in the front yard. Their crime: dropping yellow-green pollen come spring. Ellie wondered if Russell had allergies.
“Elvin,” he said. “My middle name is Elvin. Now will you marry me?”
Ellie turned in her seat, reached forward, and lowered the fan speed. “What kind of name is Elvin? Sounds like a family name. Don’t reckon I’ve ever heard it before and, believe me, in South Carolina we’ve got a slew of weird names. Did I ever tell you my husband Leland’s younger brother’s name was Bowser? Family just called him Bow-wow. Now ain’t that an awful thing? Saddling a child with a name like Bowser? I told Lisa if she ever—”
“Ellie, for God’s sake, what are you talkin’ about? Who the hell cares if some kid grew up with the name Bow-wow?”
“Bowser.”
“Bowser, schmowser. Who cares? Certainly not me, and certainly not today!” Russell reached over and picked up a can of lemonade from the console, took a sip, and set it down. “Mighty tasty for being canned,” he mumbled. He smacked his lips and ran a finger along his mustache then pushed the fan dial up one speed. “I’m talking marriage here and you’re talking gibberish.” Just then an eighteen-wheeler passed by with such speed that the Cadillac rocked.
“Mercy,” Ellie shouted, her hand flying to her chest. “We’ll be killed parked out here in the middle of nowhere, Russell. I don’t think this is a good idea.” She glanced at the key in the ignition as if to will it to turn. Nothing happened. Noticing the Cadillac emblem she recalled how Leland had favored Chevrolets. He always was tight with the dollar. He’d never have bought anything as fine or pricey as this Cadillac. She slid her hand along the soft leather; smooth as a newborn. Wouldn’t take much for a gal to get used to this kind of luxury.
Ellie picked up the conversation. “So I’m talking gibberish, am I? Is this a preview of how I can expect to be treated? Brought up short every time I share a memory?” She peered at him and pursed her lips, then returned her focus to the highway. “There’s enough traffic out there to make a body think it’s a holiday. I suppose if I were to ask why you have those longhorns stuck up there on your hood, well, that’d be gibberish, too.” Without waiting for him to catch up or answer, she leaned forward and opened the glove compartment. “Any chance I'll find a pack of tissues in here? I think I’m gonna need them.” She began removing papers, folders and gadgets, and piling them on her lap. Leland’s old Chevy had a glove compartment about the size of a sandwich, she told herself. Russell’s packed enough junk in her to fill a file cabinet.
While she was busy with her latest project, Russell heaved a sigh and offered a thought. “You know, the last time I pulled over on the side of a highway was back in 1988—or was it ’89? Blew out a tire—right front, I think—could have been right rear, now that I call it to mind. Damn near scared me to death.” Just then two trucks flew past, honking their horns in unison. “Well, talk about being scared to death. You all right, Ellie?” No answer. “Hmm. Where was I?” He gripped the steering wheel as if he could squeeze an answer from it.